


Rebuild

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9960416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: A story of how they get from there to here, told in five parts.Sometimes you have to take your time, but that's still no reason to dawdle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [thescienceofobsession](http://thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com/) is amazing and I love her. She also beta read this.

It’s the fourth time John has yawned. Sherlock isn’t counting, except apparently he is. 

It’s not late, not compared to some of their previous investigations, but the work is slow going. The hazardous materials and dangerous bits have been cleared away. All that’s left is to pick their way through the detritus of Baker Street piece by piece. Sherlock had pictured the clean up as a tedious but necessary step in getting his home, his office, his haven back in working order. He hadn’t foreseen the need to evaluate every item of mismatched Bohemian decor he’d surrounded himself with. He has to weigh the damage against future utility one trinket at a time.

The sentimentality of his possessions weighs him down. This wouldn’t have been the case five years ago. Or maybe even three years ago. 

But then Sherlock sees John out of the corner of his eye, stifling a yawn and stuffing destroyed case files in a bin bag. The sentimentality is fine. Even if it means going through the entire flat bit by bit instead of just shoveling everything through the blown out windows and starting over. 

Sherlock’s chair survived the explosion but John’s did not. Sherlock’s would have been easier to replace; he could simply order a replacement for his. But John’s needs to have the fraying edges and lumpy cushion that mean it’s been well-used and provides nothing but comfort to its owner. Sherlock will have to put a call out to his homeless network to watch the nicest skips and second hand stores for something suitable. He can have it reupholstered in the correct fabric if the bones are good. 

John yawns again. 

Sherlock straightens from where he is slightly hunched over what’s left of the kitchen table. There’s endless amounts of chemistry equipment to sort through. Are the Erlenmeyer flasks and Griffin beakers cracked? Does the piping still hold liquid? Judging by the amount of glass they swept from the floor, both chemical and decorative, there shouldn’t be an intact container or window in the place. And yet some remain, despite it all, unbroken.

He stretches, hands high above his head, just enough to crack his back. It gets John’s attention. 

“Ready to call it a night?” John’s already dusting his hands off on his trousers. He was more tired than Sherlock calculated. 

“Stay here.” 

John’s brow wrinkles a bit. He looks to a relatively clean corner of the sitting room where Rosie has been sleeping in a travel cot for a couple of hours. Her life is never going to be free of danger, that’s decided now, so why worry about exposing her to a bit of a mess? Mycroft’s engineers have assured them the building is structurally sound. 

“I should take her home.”

Sherlock is ready for this line of illogic. “She’s sleeping and you’re exhausted. Why truck across London only to come back in the morning? Stay.” 

John rubs the heel of hand across his brow. It takes him a moment. Sherlock can see him run through possible arguments, dismiss them, and finally give in to his aches and pains. “Yeah, all right.” 

That had been easier than anticipated. 

The cold water in the flat is working, but not the hot yet, but they wash up with some borrowed towels from Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock goes first, shutting the bathroom door even though there’s a hole ripped in the wood so it barely matters. While John wipes away the sweat and grime of the day, Sherlock balances Rosie against his chest and folds up the cot to move it into his bedroom. John will want her close. 

Sherlock’s room is a bit singed but, structurally, it fared much better than the sitting room. There’s a hole in the wall near the door and the windows were blown out, but otherwise the damage was minimal. A camping lantern casts an eerie glow around the room. The holes where the windows used to be are boarded over, blocking all light from the street, and Sherlock hasn’t had a chance to have an electrician in to replace the light fixtures yet. 

His bed had been pushed from the wall and ended up halfway across the room with an impressive crack down the headboard. It will need to be replaced but the mattress is intact and Mrs. Hudson brought him clean sheets hours ago when he indicated he would stay at Baker Street. 

He just thought he’d be staying alone. 

It doesn’t matter. The bed is big enough for both of them. 

And there’s not another choice. Even if John’s old room hadn’t already been cleared of the meager furniture Sherlock stored there, the stairs are questionable. Best not to take Rosie up them. 

So they’ll all sleep in here, wake up tomorrow for tea and toast, and keep restoring the flat. 

Sherlock opens the cot again. He has to bump it with his hip to get it to open completely. That jostles Rosie a bit and she squirms against him. Sherlock tucks his lips close to her ear and murmurs a bit to soothe her. He’s discovered it doesn’t matter what he says, just the sound or resonance of his voice makes her calm. She doesn’t really wake up but she does leave a trail of something wet on Sherlock’s shoulder. That would have upset him once upon a time. He presses a kiss to the soft hair just above her ear. 

“She likes to hear you talk.”

Sherlock whips his head around to see that John has snuck into the room while he was busy with Rosie. He’s still wiping at the back of his neck with one of Mrs. Hudsons purple towels and the ends of his hair are dark and damp. 

“She obviously possesses above average intelligence.” Sherlock lays her down and pulls the blanket over her. Rosie barely stirs. 

“That or she has no idea what you’re saying. Makes it easier to deal with you.” 

Sherlock smirks as John leans over the cot to check on Rosie. He knows Sherlock has tucked her in correctly, that everything’s fine, but he has to look in on her anyway. 

“All of us in here then?” John says, still looking down at Rosie. 

Sherlock pauses, an increasingly familiar shiver of anxiousness crawling up his spine. Many things that would have bothered him before are now fine. Things he never would have done are routine. But that means some things which were fine before are now laced with new meaning, with the possibility of all going wrong. 

“There’s no bed upstairs anymore.” His throat is dry when he says it. It’s the most direct fact Sherlock has to make John stay. Not just stay in Baker Street, that’s a given now, but stay with him.

John shrugs as if everything is fine and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. They’re closer, more in sync with each other than they have every been. It just took John losing part of his family and Sherlock gaining part of his to bring them here. 

Sherlock wishes he could say he’d change that, but deep down he’s not sure he could do it. He couldn’t change it knowing what they have now. He’s not that strong, that unselfish. He would want John to have Mary back, but he’s glad it’s not his choice to make. 

Sherlock tucks back into the bathroom to change into pajama pants and a tee shirt, new ones that Mycroft had sent over, while John strips down to his shorts and vest. He hasn’t had time to pick up a new dressing gown but wishes he had one to wrap around himself like armour. 

They settle into bed with John facing the ply-board window coverings and Sherlock facing John’s back. Turning out the camp light leaves them in pitch blackness. Rosie doesn’t seem to mind.

John’s breathing settles. Sherlock listens to it grow deeper, more even. There’s something that has been niggling at the back of Sherlock’s mind since Eurus and Musgrave. It was a seed that, once germinated, could not be ignored. 

He waits a bit longer, until he can tell John is on the edge of sleep.

“John?”

There’s a sleepy murmur from the other side of the bed. 

“My… Victor, my friend. I think I loved him, John.” 

Saying it aloud forces the seed into full bloom in Sherlock’s mind. It’s vines wrap around his heart and squeeze. 

John is quiet, but not asleep. He heard. Sherlock knows he heard by the tension in his shoulders and by how _deliberately_ quiet he is. 

“Yeah, he was your friend. You were a kid. Of course you loved him.” 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. John is trying to give him a way out but he can’t take it. Not now. Not knowing that everything he’s become is based on this defining moment of his early life. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know it’s not.”

He lets that truth sit between them for long minutes. John goes quiet again, but his breathing doesn’t deepen. Sherlock wonders if he’s staring at the wall the same way Sherlock’s staring at the back of his head. 

The silence is too much and the weight of what Sherlock has been carrying breaks it. 

“He had a lisp. Just a slight one, when he spoke. I’m sure he would have grown out of it in time…” Sherlock’s voice cracks as the vines around his heart tighten. He can’t hear Victor’s voice but he knows, _knows_ , the lisp was there. 

There’s a creak from the bed and Sherlock finds himself pulled tight against John’s shoulder. They don’t speak, and Sherlock doesn’t cry, but he falls asleep like that, with John’s vest creasing his face. 

Come morning, John is already up with Rosie and the flat looks that much cleaner, that much brighter.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s what they’ve agreed upon, and Sherlock thinks it’s wise, but it still hurts. 

“Go. We’ll be here when you get back. Call if you need a consult.” John’s smile is tight and Rosie wiggles against his hip. Even she’s unhappy and she doesn’t understand what’s going on. 

They had agreed. If there was a chance of danger, more than just the normal danger of any given day as John and Mary Watson’s daughter, Rosie would not go on a case. Things like crime scenes were likely fine, as they were also likely crawling with police officers. And Scotland Yard itself had a spare travel cot for Rosie in Greg’s office. 

But today Lestrade had called Sherlock out on a manhunt. They needed him to predict where a murderer would run with the police hot on his trail. 

Mrs. Hudson is out, Molly’s at the morgue, and there’s no time to call anyone else. So Sherlock must go alone. 

He’s been on so many cases without John. There were cases before John, adventures while Sherlock was “dead”, and cases taken while John was on the other side of London. But it gets harder and harder to leave him behind. 

“If Mrs. Hudson comes home, I’ll catch you up, all right?” 

He must be stalling. John’s trying to shuffle him out the door. Sherlock spins toward the kitchen, his coat swirling about his legs. John’s gun is in a lock box in the cupboard above the refrigerator - another concession to living with a toddler. Sherlock has it tucked into the back of his waist band before he makes a move toward the door. 

A move that’s blocked by John… and Rosie. Always both of them now. 

“Be careful, yeah?” John swallows and glances to Sherlock’s hip, not far from where the gun rests against his spine. “I hate not being there to watch your back.”

“John, we agreed.”

“Yeah, I know.” He bounces Rosie a bit. Unnecessary, she’s perfectly content to look between them as they talk in hushed tones. 

There’s nothing else to say so Sherlock steps forward, cups the back of Rosie’s head in his palm, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s a ritual for them now. Sherlock always brushes his lips against her hair or her cheek before he leaves. She often leaves sticky kisses on his face when Mrs. Hudson or Molly take her out of 221b for an afternoon. 

Sherlock likes that more than he’d ever admit. 

Without thinking, Sherlock turns and catches the spot just above John’s ear with his lips. He uses the same soft pressure he used to press his lips to Rosie’s skin. They are both precious to him. 

It doesn’t last. It’s just a second or two before Sherlock steps back, faltering a bit on unsteady feet. 

John looks star-struck. 

They stare for a moment. Just a moment before Sherlock rocks back on his heels, ready to flee, to run to Lestrade. Or run away from John. Either is just as true. 

He’s pivoting, shoulder already turned to the door, when John breaks the silence. 

“Be careful.” 

Both John and Rosie stare back at him with dark blue gazes full of feeling. Sherlock nods and his feet hit the stairs as he swallows around the rising lump in his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

Rosie has been sick for days and John is about to snap. Sherlock can see it in the lines on his brow and the tension in his shoulders. 

She fusses constantly. The moments when she’s not whining or clenching her little fists in a shockingly accurate imitation of her father are frustratingly brief. She’s feverish and uncomfortable and she’s making John’s life miserable. 

Sherlock had retreated to his room for the night more than an hour ago, but he can still hear them. John’s pacing and Rosie’s fussing won’t let him fall asleep. He could sleep, of course, the noise isn’t that great. But Rosie’s distress and John’s helplessness churn in his stomach. 

He pulls on his smoothest, silkiest dressing gown before padding out to the sitting room on bare feet. 

“Shit. Didn’t mean to wake you. She’s still not feeling well.”

John looks tired. Haggard, possibly. This isn’t his area. He’s a doctor, he cares for people, but he cares for those with acute injury or trauma. Even in his dull days of GP locum work, he would assess a situation, provide a solution, and send the person on their way. He didn’t have to care for long-term suffering. 

Sherlock’s gut twists when Rosie turns her red, blotchy face to him. Not being able to comfort your own daughter would be even more difficult than sending strangers away uncured. 

And John wants to be a good person, a model father even if he knows that’s an unattainable social construct. Being upset and frustrated pushes that unrealised self-image even farther away.

Sherlock steps forward and gently takes Rosie from John’s arm. “Here. Take a break.”

She comes to him willingly, burying her face in the side of his neck. She’s hot. Very hot. But John would have noticed if she were dangerously so. Sherlock’s stomach gives that treacherous knot-and-twist feeling again anyway. 

“She’s hot.” He knows it’s a stupid thing to say. John knows she’s hot. He’s been walking her around the flat for hours. 

“Yeah.” John rubs at the back of his neck, weary. “I’ve given her Calpol and it’s come down a bit but not enough yet. I’ll get her a cool cloth if you’ve got her?” 

Sherlock nods. John still questions his care of Rosie. Questions if it’s an imposition, if Sherlock is really fine with lending his support. He’s more than fine. It’s one of the things he’s come to cherish most in the world. But the thought of telling John that makes his mouth go dry and a lump stick in his throat. 

Instead, he settles Rosie against his chest while the water runs from the tap in the kitchen. She sighs a little and presses her face against the cool fabric of his dressing gown. Good. He’d chosen the right dressing gown. 

John comes back with the cool compress and lays it against the back of her exposed neck. His hand keeps it there and his shoulder bumps against Sherlock’s arm. “She’ll have your pyjamas a mess in a minute.” 

“It’s fine.” 

They stand like that for a moment, quietly both looking down at Rosie’s bent head. 

“She settled for you fast enough.” There’s no censure or shame in John’s voice. Just awe. 

Sherlock smiles a bit and bends his neck a bit to press a kiss to the crown of Rosie’s head. “It’s the Calpol kicking in.” She does feel cooler already, but Sherlock’s not sure that’s actually possible. 

It soothes John though. “Good. That’s good. Maybe she’ll sleep now.” 

Sherlock finds himself reluctant to give Rosie up so fast. Instead, he lowers himself to the sofa and reclines back so Rosie is lying against his chest with her knees hooked around his ribs. She doesn’t protest their change in position and her breathing is deeper, more even than when he first took her from John’s arms. 

“We can try it here for a bit first,” Sherlock whispers over her head.

John watches them, gazing down from the other side of the coffee table. Sherlock stares back at him. It’s strange and intense and makes his stomach twist in a way totally different than his concern for Rosie did. Sherlock looks away first. 

“Right, I’ll make tea.” John shuffles off to the kitchen before Sherlock can bring himself to look at John again. 

Three and a half minutes later, a mug of chamomile is set on the table in front of him as John gingerly sits next to him. John inches his way onto the sofa until his back is resting against the cushions. He doesn’t want to jostle the furniture and wake Rosie. 

She has fallen asleep, Sherlock realizes. It’s not a deep or restful sleep. She’s not making any of the small huffing noises she does when she’s truly out for the night, but she’s definitely unconscious. She can rest now. It’s enough to make Sherlock giddy. 

John settling next to him with their shoulders brushing together might have something to do with it as well. 

It’s quiet in Baker Street and Sherlock is more content than he can remember being in a very long time. 

****************

Rosie is like a lead weight on his chest when he wakes up. All her muscles have gone slack and she’s drooling on his shirt. John’s head is resting peacefully against his shoulder. When Sherlock looks down he can see the swirl of an identical cowlick on the crowns of both their heads. Rosie’s is a bit more off-center than John’s but it’s the same pattern. 

Between the two of them, they’ve cut off the blood flow to his right arm and it’s gone numb. But he doesn’t want to wake either of them. 

There’s a hint of dull grey light coming through the curtains. It’s near dawn and John will be awake soon. He can wait until then. Their mugs of chamomile sit untouched on the coffee table in front of him. 

Sherlock is right. John rousts just a few moments later. Sherlock had held himself as still as possible, not wanting John to pull away. 

And he doesn’t. Not entirely. He sits up a bit, leans away enough that his head isn’t resting against Sherlock anymore, but not far enough away to be out of Sherlock’s space. Sherlock turns to look at him and they almost bump noses. 

“She still asleep?” 

Sherlock nods, trying not to stare at John’s eyes or his lips or anywhere really. 

“Small wonders.” 

Sherlock nods again. John’s not moving away. He’s not sure what to do. Except he knows that he doesn’t want John to move away and he certainly doesn’t want to move either. It would wake Rosie, he tells himself. 

“Sherlock…” John breathes out before he starts to lean into Sherlock’s space even more. 

It happens slowly. So slowly that Sherlock has enough time to record everything so he can replay every millisecond of it exactly in his mind palace forever. He knows the exact moment when John’s eyes slip shut. He can savor the sight of the slow drag of John’s tongue across his own lips before their mouths come together. He can feel the miniscule increases in pressure as John’s fingers squeeze his thigh. 

That awestruck attention to detail fails him when John’s lips touch his. Any thought of trying to process and remember the objective details of this experience fly right out the window. 

Sherlock does get a few bits and pieces though. 

John’s lips are moist, a consequence of John’s habit of nervously licking his lips. They are also soft and more plush than Sherlock imagined. He would be lying to himself if he denied having imagined. 

They also _move_. That he hadn’t thought to consider. John’s lips open and close and stroke and caress across Sherlock’s mouth. Irene’s mouth had moved as well, but not like this. 

She had been deliberate, calculated. John kisses for the joy of it. It’s still slow and John’s obviously not lost to the heat of passion. It’s sleepy and warm and Sherlock kisses the corner of John’s mouth where it turns up in a smile. 

Their necks are twisted at an odd angle, and Rosie is still asleep on Sherlock’s chest, so he can’t turn to kiss John more fully. 

He can’t manipulate this the way he wants, he can’t pour his feelings into this slow, comfortable kiss the way he would like, but John keeps kissing him. Keeps moving his mouth across Sherlock’s lips. He dips his tongue inside. 

Sherlock pushes back, sliding his tongue along John’s. He’s pinned in his position on the sofa but he can respond with passion like this. 

The air between them is humid and heavy. Sherlock wishes he had his hands free but the arm between he and John is wrapped around Rosie. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to keep kissing John and figure out how to free his arm without letting her slide to the floor. Both outcomes are unacceptable. But their lips keep moving and their tongues keep dipping in and out in a dance Sherlock didn’t know he would love. 

John pulls back, still slowly, and Sherlock cranes his neck forward to chase him. He manages two quick pecks before John dips his head and takes his swollen lips out of Sherlock’s reach. He rests his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s contemplating the best way to use his chin as leverage against John’s forehead to force him to lift his face when he hears John’s soft murmur. 

“Good morning, sleepy head. Feeling better?”

It takes a solid 2.5 seconds for Sherlock to realize John is talking to Rosie. She’s woken up and is blinking owlishly at John, sleep still clinging to her. Of course she doesn’t answer his age-inappropriate question. She’s barely uttering any words at her age, much less complex answers about physical health. 

John slides his nose along Sherlock’s jaw and presses a lingering kiss just under Sherlock’s ear. “Time to get up, I guess.” 

He rises and takes Rosie from Sherlock’s arms all while Sherlock sits dumbstruck. 

There had been times when Sherlock was sure they were moving this direction, before Mary and after. Sometimes that surety is met with joy, other times with fear. This is never how he imagined it. In Sherlock’s imagined scenarios, it is never a slow, warm realization in a domestic moment. It’s fueled by adrenaline or the threat of loss. Never by comfort and affection. 

This is better. It feels lasting. If John is moved to kiss him, to kiss him for the first time, when nothing more than an uncomfortable nap had passed between them, imagine the passion that affection would turn into in more heated moments. 

If that’s actually how this works - it may not be. This has never been Sherlock’s area after all. He quickly flips through whom he could ask for advice: Molly, Greg, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, the Woman. None of them are acceptable. It’s uncharted territory and he has no map to guide him. 

“Here.” John slides a warm cup of tea into Sherlock’s hand. Something dark and strong and much prefered to the untouched chamomile from the night before. Rosie sits on John’s hip, shoving a handful of sticky cereal bits into her mouth. 

Sherlock leaps from the couch, sloshing hot tea across his wrist. A thought from the night before strikes him. “We need to switch bedrooms.”

Rosie continues munching on her cereal, unconcerned. John stares. “Sorry?”

“You and Rosie should take my room. It’s larger. You’ll have better access to the bathroom and you won’t have to carry all her things up and down the stairs.” It’s something Sherlock has been thinking about for a while, since John moved back to Baker Street and brought Rosie with him. He had been reminded of it last night when he listened to John pace above him, then quietly bring Rosie back down to the sitting room. His room was just more convenient for both of them. He didn’t mind having the smaller room upstairs. 

John smiles at him. “We’re all right where we are, for now, right Rosie?” He bounces her a bit and she laughs. She must be feeling better. 

Sherlock steps forward and picks away a bit of cereal stuck to her cheek. His toes almost nudge John’s. “Are you sure? I want you to be comfortable. Things are different now. Not like when we lived together before.”

“Yeah, I know. But some changes can be slow. So we don’t get it wrong and do something we can’t fix, all right?” John’s still smiling up at him but there’s a hint of trepidation there. 

Sherlock leans in and John tilts up to meet him with no hesitation. Sherlock keeps his hands hanging limply at his sides and keeps his kiss chaste. Just a dry press of lips to lips. A promise, not an escalation. 

“Change can be slow.” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips as he pulls away.


	4. Chapter 4

“This all right?”

John’s voice is quiet. Keeping quiet has become a habit around Baker Street in the dead of night, after Rosie has gone to bed; but Sherlock can’t be worried about her right now. The quiet feels like it’s for him alone. It makes him feel safe. If they don’t raise their voices, this interlude is some otherworldly event just between them. The darkness helps with that illusion too. 

The only interruptions into their hushed, dark cocoon are the dull street lights stealing through the curtains and the soft crackle of a baby monitor. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes out. He arches into John’s hands. “This is good.”

There are the noises they’re making themselves, of course. Shifts of the bed sheets under their bodies, the sounds of their bare legs rubbing against each other, the sound of their lips against each other. All things Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed if the flat weren’t so quiet. He’d thank Baker Street if he thought the building cared at all. This new level of quiet lets him file every scrap of fabric against skin, every heavy exhale, into a rapidly growing room in his mind palace. 

This is new. They’re taking it slowly. But it may not last. If this is all he gets of John Watson, he will remember it forever. 

Even with the use of his mind palace, Sherlock doubts he’ll forget the feeling of John curled behind him, both of them stripped down to their pants. The fronts of John’s thighs cradle the backs of his. They’re so warm. Much warmer than he would have expected. They burn against him. 

John’s arms are wrapped around his from behind, criss-crossing up his chest. His hands aren’t doing much, just resting on Sherlock’s chest, but that’s enough. It’s grounding.

John’s mouth, on the other hand, is doing quite a lot. It’s searing kisses across Sherlock’s shoulders, up the side of his neck, all the way to the hinge of his jaw and the shell of his ear. John starts slow but those kisses quickly escalate until Sherlock is panting and pressing his back and ass tight against John’s body. 

He wants to roll to kiss John’s lips but the pressure of John against his back, John’s lips on the back of his neck, feels too good. And there’s the benefit of not being able to actually see John that feels too intimate even in the near-silent darkness. 

John must feel the same because he makes no move to change their position and they’ve gotten quite good at kissing in the last few weeks. But always in the light, in the noise of the flat, and with their clothes on. Sherlock might prefer it this way though.

Just as Sherlock is weighing the benefits of one type of kissing over another, John sucks on the flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He worries it with the blunt edge of his teeth and soothes it with his tongue. A moan escapes Sherlock, loud enough to crack the sound barrier they had implicitly agreed upon. 

John stops and rests his brow against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. That’s exactly what Sherlock didn’t want. He shifts back, trying to maximize contact with John’s body. John’s arms tighten around his chest and John’s hand squeezes just above his bullet scar. 

“Maybe we should slow down.” John presses a soft kiss to the knob of spine. It’s more like the kisses they’ve shared up to this point. It lacks the passion of John’s earlier exploration. Sherlock hates it, but he bends his head further to bare more of his neck to John. 

“No. No, this is fine.” Sherlock’s voice cracks a bit but he licks his lips and keeps going. His hands come up to grasp at John’s forearms but not to pull him away. “We don’t need to go slower. I’ll be quiet.”

John laughs against Sherlock’s skin and that hot, damp breath makes something deep in Sherlock’s core tighten. “I don’t want you to be quiet. I very, very much don’t want you to be quiet.”

For the first time, Sherlock considers that maybe John is as affected by this as he is. He had assumed that he would be the one more likely to lose control, to be lost in sensation. The basis for his assumption is sound: John has more experience with physical relationships. And it’s very likely, Sherlock fears, that his feelings for John outweigh John’s for him. Surely the lack of exposure to physical stimulus of a sexual nature with another person combined with the depth of Sherlock’s feelings would have made him the weaker party? 

The rapid pant of John’s breath on his neck and the shaking in John’s arms as they lock around him seem to throw that conclusion in doubt. 

_Good._

Sherlock rocks back to bring his ass in closer contact with John’s groin. The hardness of John’s cock against his bottom isn’t exactly a surprise. Sherlock has been feeling it grow against him through most of this encounter. When they first shifted into this position, John had been politely trying to angle himself away but as their kisses grew more heated that politeness faded away. John had let them touch but he didn’t push, or thrust, or grind. Sherlock is sure he wouldn’t have had the same self-control if their positions were reversed. He pushes back harder and John groans. He doesn’t have the same self-control anyway. 

Maybe his conclusion about who was more likely to be overcome was correct after all. Though, Sherlock is not as hard as John is. He has an erection but his cock feels plump or full rather than hard. Direct stimulation would increase his pleasure and make him harder. Maybe that’s the difference between their reactions and not the relative measure of sexual experience. Sherlock rocks his hips forward and back to rub against John’s cock. 

“Christ, Sherlock.”

Direct stimulation does seem to have an effect. 

One of John’s hands drops to Sherlock’s hip to hold him steady. Sherlock misses the warmth of John’s arm locked around his chest, but the pressure of John’s finger tips wrapping around his hipbone makes him bite his lip to keep from crying out again. 

Perhaps relative sexual experience wasn’t the right variable to use. It’s not as if Sherlock has no sexual experience. There was Irene, but that was more like an experiment between two curious parties. There was something detached about it, even if Sherlock did gain knowledge there that makes him feel more confident in bed with John. 

John’s tongue traces a swirled pattern on the back of Sherlock’s shoulder. He nips the skin there again and pulls sharply back on Sherlock’s hip. John’s cock bluntly pushes at the curve of Sherlock’s ass and Sherlock lets himself be heard this time. John moans back at him in some sort of sensual call and response that he suddenly wants to become fluent in. 

“We really should stop.”

A stab of petulant displeasure rockets through Sherlock. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Of course you don’t.” John kisses him again and pulls away. Sherlock nearly backs them both off the side of the bed in a quest for renewed contact. “I don’t want to stop either but… here, turn over.” 

That is absolutely not what Sherlock wants. But the gentle nudge John gives his hip has him rolling over with only a grumbled complaint. 

John keeps nudging him, pushing him back to make more room on the bed. Sherlock only moves because John follows him immediately, leaving only a few inches of space between them. The sheet is wrinkled and bunched uncomfortably underneath them and Sherlock wants to close the gap between them to better feel John’s heat against his skin. 

Instead, John reaches out and rests his fingertips just above the waistband of Sherlock’s boxer briefs. “Do you touch yourself, Sherlock?”

Now that they’re looking at each other, the darkness doesn’t hide a lot. 

“Sometimes. Not often before, but more now.” It’s an inelegant, imprecise answer and Sherlock hates it but it’s the best he can do at the moment. 

John nods and Sherlock watches his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Okay, good. That’s good. Why don’t you touch yourself and I’ll touch myself and we’ll do this together then?”

Sherlock cants his hips up, bringing his now much-harder cock into contact with the heel of John’s hand. “I’d rather you touch me.” 

John’s hand closes around his cock, as best it can through his pants anyway, and squeezes lightly. “You’re making it really hard to go slowly,” John groans.

“We’ve gone slowly enough.” He pumps his hips, letting his body do what it has wanted to do since he and John took of their clothes together and got into bed. 

John surges forward and kisses him. It’s hot and sloppy and Sherlock thinks he accidentally bites the edge of John’s tongue a bit. They are both panting when John pulls away. He grabs the elastic of Sherlock’s pants and tugs. 

Sherlock is quick to shimmy out of his boxer briefs, flailing a bit as he kicks them away. John similarly gets himself out of his own pants and Sherlock is briefly irritated that he didn’t get to peel them off John himself. _Next time_ , he thinks and starts a mental list of things he wants to do. 

John’s hand closes around him again and with no fabric to separate them, Sherlock can’t keep himself from moaning and rocking his hips. John slides his palm up to the tip of Sherlock’s cock, then across the head to smear the moisture gathering there around, before he closes his fist and slides back down again. Slides back down all the way to the root before letting go and cupping Sherlock’s balls. They are already high and tight against his body. 

“You have to tell me what you like.”

Sherlock nods and he can feel sweat drip down his neck. He reaches forward and wraps his fingers around John’s cock, careful not to bump their wrists together. 

As John moves, so does Sherlock. The stroke together, up and down, in a slowly building rhythm. Their knuckles rub together as they shift and inch closer together. Sherlock’s hips rock up into John’s grip and the sheet sticks to him in a growing, sweaty mess. 

He’s grateful for the distraction of John’s cock in his hand. It gives him something else to focus on, instead of the tightness pulling at his core and the heat pooling at the base of his spine. Instead, he uses his thumb to map the veins on the underside of John’s cock with each stroke from base to tip. 

John moans as Sherlock’s thumb rolls over the tip of John’s cock. He plays there for a moment, rubbing his fingertips through the slick leaking from John’s slit. He might get a bit lost there for a few moments because John rocks his hips to encourage Sherlock to stroke again. 

He grips John but doesn’t move his hand. 

“Please. Sherlock, please.” 

Sherlock looks up, tearing his eyes away from the view of John’s cock in his fist. John’s eyes are heavy lidded, his lips are bitten red, and there’s a sheen of sweat across his brow. He’s on the edge of shaking apart, Sherlock realizes. John is going to come, come apart, in his hand and only because Sherlock is touching him. John wants to come like this. He wants to come with Sherlock. The power in that gives Sherlock a giddy head rush. He almost giggles but he puts himself back to his task. 

His fist moves up and down John’s cock with increasing speed, and flexes his fingers until he finds the right amount of pressure that makes John’s breath quicken. John rocks his hips a bit but it’s nothing like the overwhelming urge Sherlock feels to thrust, to fuck, as John strokes him in return. John seems so much more in control compared to how Sherlock feels. But there’s sweat beading on his upper lip and the muscles in his chest and shoulders twitch, so that control may be hard fought for. Sherlock sees no reason to fight at all anymore. 

John’s rhythm falters and grows erratic. He’s close. Sherlock can feel it even though he’s never seen anything like this before. He keeps pressing forward, moving his hand up and down John’s length and using the pad of his thumb to rub against the underside of the head of his cock on each stroke. 

John goes stiff against Sherlock’s body and his cock twitches before he comes. John shoots come across Sherlock’s belly before he grabs Sherlock by the wrist. Sherlock stops moving and the last bits of John’s release leaks across his fingers. He wants to taste it, to rub it into his skin, but mostly he wants to mark John in the same way that he now feels marked. 

He gives John until the count of ten in his mind to regain his composure before Sherlock thrusts his hips to remind John of what he should be doing. His grip had slackened over the past few minutes, which was fine, Sherlock had other things to concentrate on then anyway. He tightens his fist again reflexively when Sherlock moves his cock between them. 

“Christ. What would you like?” John’s voice is sleepy and slow. 

Just the shallow movement of rocking his hips again makes pleasure spark in Sherlock’s balls. He’s closer than he thought. He wraps his hand around John’s shoulder for leverage. “Just stay like that.”

John holds his curled fist still and Sherlock fucks his grip. There’s enough sweat and come between them to make everything slide without unpleasant friction. He pushes against John’s shoulder to slide himself nearly all the way out of John’s hand, then slam back in until the heel of John’s hand brushes where his balls are tight and hot against his body. 

He closes his eyes and remembers what John looked like when he came, remembered feeling his hot, thick come splatter against his stomach. He knows he’s about to do the same to John and that’s enough to push him over the edge. 

Sherlock comes, back bowing, and with eyes wide open so he can watch himself come at John Watson’s touch. 

He loses a bit of time again but John kisses him fiercely. It’s passionate and Sherlock feels drunk on John’s lips but it’s a wind down, not a ramp up. Eventually they break apart, breathless and smiling. John hands him a discarded vest to wipe down with. Neither of them seem inclined to leave the bed for a more thorough cleaning. 

Sherlock rolls so he can see the light from the street lamps ghosting through the windows. He feels John settle in behind him. 

“Mind if I stay?” John asks as he lays a hand on Sherlock’s hip. 

It’s a ridiculous question that doesn’t require an answer. John knows it doesn’t require an answer since he’s obviously already made himself comfortable and will very soon fall asleep. Instead of a verbal response, either an affirmative one or a sarcastic one, Sherlock takes John’s hand and uses it to pull his arm more firmly around Sherlock’s waist. 

The baby monitor crackles and pops quietly in the background all the way through morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s not sure how long he’s been carefully pulling bits of shattered bone and broken glass from the pig carcass laid out on the table. His head jerks up and his hand slips so that he ends up with a bit of the mess that’s left of the pig’s entrails on his knuckles. He needs to know the time. He has to have the more disturbing or hazardous parts of his research cleaned up and put away before Rosie gets home from school. It’s the long standing agreement he and John have had for more than five years now. He’s managed to only go against it a few times in the early days when he wasn’t quite sure of their operating definitions of “disturbing” and “hazardous”. He knows better now. 

He doesn’t know enough to put a visible clock in the kitchen though. He eyes his phone, considers the state of his hands, and bends to use his nose to active the screen in order to see the time. 

John’s pointedly cleared throat stops him with his face halfway to the counter top. 

John’s shoes are off, so he’s been home for awhile and today is a day John would have picked Rosie up from school on his way home from the surgery at which he insists on maintaining the appearance of outside employment. Damn. Sherlock had missed his window to make the kitchen respectable. 

“Ah, is…” Sherlock looks to the ceiling, hands still wrist deep in pig carcass. 

John smiles at him and leans against the sitting room doorway. He’s not angry. “No, she didn’t come up. Went straight to Mrs. Hudson’s for tea and then Greg is coming to pick her up for a sleepover with his kids.” 

Sherlock’s brain stalled at that. Rosie never stayed without them, unless she wanted to stay with Mrs. Hudson which hardly counted or they were overnighting somewhere for a case. There wasn’t an urgent case, just some background research with the pig, unless Hopkins or Dimmock had contacted John directly. But, no, if it were a case John would be hustling him out the door. John wasn’t experiencing a spike of adrenaline or anticipating danger. He was relaxed. 

That left one improbable option. Sherlock smiles, slow but growing steadily wider.

“John, is this a date night?”

John smiles back at him. “Knew you’d get there eventually. I thought we might go to Angelo’s, you can deduce passersby to impress me, then we can come home and watch a movie.” John steps closer, around the dead pig on the table, to stand just in front of Sherlock. His voice pitches lower. “And then we can go to bed, without any little ears listening in.” 

Sherlock sways a bit toward John. He always moves toward John, even now years and lifetimes later. It’s like a magnet. Strongest in both quiet, intimate moments and in the chaos of their most dangerous times. 

“If you get pig guts on me, I will kill you.” 

It’s a joke, and Sherlock has never heard ‘pig guts’ be growled out in a way that makes his toes curl before, but he steps back anyway. He’ll wash up, John will take him to dinner, and then they’ll come home and pretend to watch some boring movie before heading to bed. 

Maybe Sherlock can convince him to skip the pretense of a movie altogether. 

This irritating blissful domestic life they’ve settled into scratches an itch Sherlock didn’t realize he had. It’s a solid base, a type of security he had always shied away from, and the danger they face makes the quiet moments with John and Rosie all the sweeter. It’s given him a purpose outside himself. 

He washes, careful to keep his sleeves dry but still scrub all the way up to his elbows. John comes to stand behind him and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. They stand for a quiet moment and Sherlock is struck by his own future, stretched out before him as obvious to him as a criminal’s bloody footprints tracking across London. 

Tonight, he and John will go to dinner without having to order pasta bolognese from the children’s menu and then he will succeed at seducing John on the sofa while the TV plays in the background. Tomorrow he’ll finish the experiment with the pig, maybe solve a crime, and remember that it’s his day to pick Rosie up from school. The thought of repeating these days ad nauseam no longer fills him with anxious dread. Instead, he smiles and looks forward to each and everyday.


End file.
